


Feint

by FleetofShips242



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Bahrain (mentioned), Berserker Staff, Casual Sex, F/M, I'm Sorry, May Loves Coulson, May wants Coulson, Pining, Post-Episode: s01e08 The Well, Rage, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Ward will have to do, Ward’s a tool, but can’t have him, that’s the problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetofShips242/pseuds/FleetofShips242
Summary: She hadn’t anticipated this scenario...there had never been any chance of messy complications for her: her heart wasn’t in it. Oh...she was enthusiastic, and it was pleasurable, but for her it was just physical. Her heart was...elsewhere.
Relationships: Melinda May/Grant Ward, Phil Coulson/Melinda May
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Feint

**Author's Note:**

> From S1 E8 “The Well”, to S1 E15 “Yes Men”. In the first instance, May invited Ward into her room for what I expect was more a release than anything else, and they continued a casual sex arrangement (several characters say it’s ‘just sex’). In the last instance, Ward tries to apologize if he hurt her by what was said when he was under Loralei’s influence, but she responds “That was never a risk with me. I told you that.” I was just struck with the fact that it’s been obvious how she feels --still feels, always felt-- about Phil. The sheer relief in T.R.A.C.K.S. when she runs up because he’s immobile, and she searches for a pulse, breathing again after finding one, was the most recent example. It’s also occurred to me that a ‘casual sex arrangement’ would be a safe bet for her, because Phil has her heart. There’s no risk of messy attachments to Ward. That thought spawned this. (Also --of the team, it’s only the two of them that touched the staff, so they have residual pent-up rage that they couldn’t expend. I don’t see any idea of ‘love’ between the characters, so I see it as more of an acceptable outlet to them.)  
> EDIT 12/8/19: Changed from 'Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings' to 'No Archive Warnings Apply' after being educated on the difference. Also fixed a formatting issue from Rich Text. No content was changed.

  
  


She’s surprised he even accepted the invitation. 

But, then...they both have unresolved tension to burn. 

She sighs and rolls her neck in a futile attempt to loosen taut muscles. There’s so much tension writhing under her skin, she wants to burn the whole goddamn place down.

When he prowls into the room, eyes roaming all over in a quick, efficient survey, she’s pouring two tumblers of Haig. It’s as though he expects entrapment...maybe a senior agent in the closet. 

She snorts, amused.

Satisfied, he shuts the door behind him, the lock snicking into place with finality.

She hands him one of the glasses, shooting hers down in one gulp, grimacing as it burns all the way down.  _ Shame. _ Haig is meant to be sipped...slowly and neat. But there’s no time for that tonight: no...tonight there’s so much to burn, and so little time.

His full lips curl around the crystal rim of the tumbler as he knocks back his drink, watching her every move with that sharp, dark gaze. 

She’s done waiting to find out what those lips feel like on hers; stepping into his space, she plucks the glass from his hand, setting it on the dresser in one fluid movement. She curses the height difference as she rises up on her toes to capture his mouth, hand sliding to his nape, urging him down to meet her. 

He doesn’t disappoint: lips parting to her exploration, strong arms wrapping around her, tugging her against him, lifting slightly to compensate for his height. He tastes like Haig...oaky and sweet. She has to tamp down the thought of what Phil and Haig would taste like, and the keening want that thought drags through her. 

She can’t have Phil. 

Ward will have to do.

He crowds her up against the wall, mouth searing a trail down her neck, guiding her leg up over his hip, and she obligingly tightens her calf across the back of his thigh, pulling him flush against her, enjoying the press of his erection...though with the clothing between them, it does little to assuage the ache tugging at her gut.

The wash of rage gnaws at her, making her impatient with the delay, with the clothing... _ too much clothing _ ...between them, and she grabs that damn black overshirt and drags it down his arms. 

She feels his lips curl into a smile against her skin, never lifting his head from the crook of her neck. 

Her hands still at the slick heat of his tongue on her collarbone, and she lets her head fall back against the wall with a groan, the wet trail of his exploration ratcheting up the need curling below her navel. 

Unbidden, memories unfold of other hands --fumbling hands-- on her skin...lips on her neck, and  _ GOD _ ...she doesn’t even feel a pang of guilt when she wishes it were Phil here, touching her like this. But  _ that _ would be messy. She wouldn’t want to wreck him...not physically...not emotionally. 

Ward is perfect. He’s a tool. She doesn’t feel guilty about that, either, because it’s obvious he feels the same way. They both need a safe space to let off some steam. Something impersonal. 

_ Just sex. _

One hand clamped to the back of his neck, the other around his bicep, nails biting into his skin, she braces herself between him and the wall, rocking her hips into his. The low guttural sound it elicits from him is gratifying. The zipper of her jacket descends with an audible zing, and his large, calloused hands delve inside. She relishes the soft groan that tells her he wasn’t expecting her to be bare underneath. 

He pushes back the supple leather roughly, eyes drinking in the sight. He raises his eyes to hers, then, and she’s never seen him so focused...so feral. His dark eyes are almost black, and there’s no softness in the hard planes of his face. 

A shiver rockets through her, but it’s not fear...she meets his wildness with her own, letting the lingering rage of the Berserker staff fuel her want.

She slips a hand between them, catching the hem of his cotton tee and pulling it up and over his head, carelessly tossing it to the corner of the room, capturing his mouth again. 

His fingers skim fiery trails across her skin as she deepens the kiss, wanting to consume him entirely.

Without breaking contact, he shifts, hoisting her up to wrap her legs around his waist, blindly walking them toward the bed. Lowering her to the mattress, he follows her down, one arm still curled around her back, the other braced on the bed beside her head, one knee dipping the covers between her legs. 

He tightens his thigh where it presses against her center, and hovers over her, dark eyes boring into hers, looking for a reaction. He feels powerful...he wants to be in control, she can tell by the set of his jaw, the satisfaction shining in his eyes.

She’s not having any of that. 

She flips him easily, pinning his wrists above his head, digging the knees bracketing his hips into the firm mattress, locking her ankles across his legs. She braces for a fight, welcoming it as the thundering rage beats in her chest.

A muscle tics in along his jaw as he tests her hold, and she can see the desire in his eyes...whether it’s a desire to beat the crap out of her or fuck her senseless, isn’t entirely clear.

She shifts, grinding her hips against his. She knows she’s baiting the bear, but she doesn’t care. 

_ Bring it on. _

He relaxes under her grip, acquiescing to her control, a roguish smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

She leaned in and kissed him hard, nipping roughly at his lower lip. 

Ward’s getting impatient, and pushes against her hold, lifting his head to meet her mouth, tongue teasing her lips, seeking permission to explore deeper. 

She shifts, releasing his hands, cradling the back of his head with one hand and bracing herself with the other...tangling her fingers in his short-cropped hair, tugging a bit harder than necessary. He doesn’t seem to notice, kissing her deeply with reckless enthusiasm, he’s giving himself over to this course of action with abandon. 

His hands glide up her back, under her jacket, and he slides it from her shoulders. She’s hyper focused on the taste of his lips, the light scratch of his stubble, and barely acknowledges the shrugging off of her jacket, but once it’s gone, his hands trace her ribs, her spine, the curve of her shoulder, and it feels  _ so damn good _ , she moans approval against his lips.

He breaks the kiss, tracing the line of her jaw with the tip of his nose, his lips, his tongue...pausing at the juncture of her neck and shoulder to nip a particularly sensitive spot, and she feels her muscles tighten, bucking her hips against his involuntarily. He gasps, warm breath puffing over her skin, and glances up at her through those lush eyelashes, smirking. 

His warm hand is splayed across her lower back, holding her in place as he leans in to lavish attention on each of her breasts, caressing with lips and tongue until she mutters a curse, so consumed with want that she wishes that he would  _ just get the hell on with it. _

She trails a finger across the well-defined muscles of his abdomen, sliding it under the waistband of his jeans, and popping the button deftly. It takes a bit of cooperative maneuvering, but they divest each other of the remaining clothing, and she realizes that she’s forgotten an important protocol. Swearing, she lunges over the edge of the bed, retrieving a small square wrapper from the pocket of her discarded pants.

“Always be prepared?” he murmured caustically. 

She bites back a scathing retort, sliding the condom on, and relishing his hiss as she strokes him hard.

He nudges her, attempting to maneuver her beneath him, but she straddles his hips, sinking down onto him in one fluid motion. His gasp against her neck is it’s own reward. She rocks, seeking a deeper fit, and his fingers bite into her hips as he grips her and thrusts upward. And  _ GOD...that feels good _ . She bites down on his shoulder, noting with bitter satisfaction that it will probably leave a mark.

Their rhythm is steadily increasing, and she feels all of the want and need pooling into her core, and she knows she’s close. 

God...she wishes it were Phil...his hands...his lips...rocking against him as she unravels. She cries out as she comes, an unintelligible howl that she doesn’t try to muzzle.

She’s vaguely aware of Ward following her, his breath stuttering, his grip tightening on her hips, but he’s almost tangential to the experience.

It’s wrong.

It’s not healthy.

It’s self-destruction, like when she pulled that trigger in Bahrain and blew her own soul away. 

Memory intrudes, sharp and painful _...breathing in the calming scent of Phil. Feeling his exhale ghosting across her scalp. Latching on to the rhythm of his breathing, downshifting her own ragged gasps to match his steady pace. He murmurs something she can't make out, but the words aren't as important as the steady cadence of his voice, anchoring her against the tumult. _

She settles, boneless and spent, against Ward’s chest. She’s physically satisfied, but emotionally devastated. She listens as his staccato breathing evens out and returns to normal, grateful that he doesn’t try for post-coital small-talk. Her legs are going numb, so she extricates herself from the younger agent, and slips away to the bathroom without a backward glance.

She washes her face, drapes a cool washcloth across the heated skin at the base of her neck, and studies the stranger in the mirror, trying to fathom her current course of action.

When she finally emerges, she’s surprised to find him still in her room: she’d half expected him to throw his clothes on and make a hasty retreat, but he’s half asleep on the large bed, the covers on the empty side turned back. She slips between the cool cotton sheets and the duvet, and he strokes her arm lightly. 

_ This could get complicated. _

She hadn’t anticipated this scenario...there had never been any chance of messy complications for her: her heart wasn’t in it. Oh...she was enthusiastic, and it was pleasurable, but for her it was just physical. Her heart was...elsewhere. 

She had assumed that, like her, he was just looking for an outlet...a one-time thing to let off the excess rage from the berserker staff.

But here he is...still in her bed.

She decides that she’s too tired to contemplate what he expects out of this new paradigm shift.

She’ll deal with it tomorrow.

She lets him spoon against her as they both drift off, the want and rage nothing but background noise now. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This would NOT leave me alone. I don’t think it was the sexual component that my brain latched onto, rather the psychological elements...so this became my attempt to explore what was going on in May’s head at this time. Mistakes are my own, as I don’t have a Beta yet in this fandom.  
> **Also...S1 E22 (season ender):  
> Ward: Reminds me of the old days.  
> May: You were never on top.  
> (that line wouldn't let me alone, either).


End file.
